


the bird, the fog, the mist

by bacondoughnut



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Rewrite, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, Healing, Home, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:03:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Jason Todd returns to Gotham with a foolproof plan, to kill the Joker and protect the city as the Red Hood in a way that Batman never could. But when he gets there he makes one major decision that's not a part of the plan. He goes home.aka; The one where Jason tries to balance being the Red Hood with repairing things with his family, and maybe learns a thing or two about forgiveness and family and love along the way
Comments: 37
Kudos: 202





	1. these people raised me, and i can't wait to go home

**Author's Note:**

> bitches will see a line of poetry and be like "is anyone gonna write a jason todd fic around this" and not wait for a response.  
> it's me, i'm bitches. title in reference to 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' by samuel taylor coleridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from 'castle on the hill' by ed sheeran

The sun has only just taken its daily vigil over the city when Jason Peter Todd comes home again. The gentle hum of a car engine as the old, stolen Dodge Challenger pulls up on the ostensibly restful grounds of Wayne Manor the only sound to keep him company on the drive.

The house is asleep, for now. The weathered stone façade deceptively unchanged over the years, from every insignificant crack in the brick to the well-kept trees and flower beds growing out front of it. He has to wonder whether that much is also true for what lies within those walls. Whether he wants it to be true for what lies inside.

"It's been too long."

Actually, it's just possible it hasn't been long enough.

An engine as crappy as the Challenger's--not the car's fault, it had a lazy driver before Jason nicked it--combined with the loose gravel of the driveway will make far too much noise. He parks a few yards down from the outer gates, pulling the canvas of his jacket tighter against the morning chill as he climbs out of the car. He sends a couple of paranoid glances over both shoulders as he approaches the electronic keypad fixed to the sturdy wrought iron gates.

It turns out he couldn't have driven up to the house if he wanted to. Bruce has changed the passcodes since he's been gone.

He doesn't know why it surprises him.

He could probably figure out what the new code is, if he had the patience for it. Even lacking the patience he considers it. The task would stall at least a few minutes, give him some time to think. Only the alarm it may well trigger if he guesses wrong isn't how he plans on announcing himself.

He hasn't really made up his mind on whether he plans on announcing himself at all.

This? His return to Gotham? It's part of a plan he's been working on for a long, long time.

Being here at Wayne Manor is not part of the plan. Wanting to talk to Bruce without the shield of the masks is not part of the plan. In fact, it could totally and entirely fuck up the plan beyond all recognition.

But he wasn't expecting to _miss_ him so much.

It's one thing to sit down and decide that it's high time he come home. To work out all the details on what to do when he gets there; a way to protect the city that raised him in a way that might actually work for once. And it's one thing to, in all that planning, think that he knows exactly what part the Batman plays in a mission like that.

It's another thing entirely to be face to face with Bruce again for the first time in years, and have it mean nothing because Bruce doesn't know who he is. Can't know who he is, not yet.

It's another thing entirely to have so much he needs to say and has to ask, and not be able to because it'll give up the game too soon.

Kind of like how stepping foot on these grounds might give up the game too soon, actually. But maybe he owes Bruce at least this much. A conversation, a chance to clear the air before he goes and does something he can't undo. Or maybe he's being selfish, because he knows he won't get the chance again after the dust settles.

He is aware as he vaults over the locked gates exactly how much he looks like some idiotic, would-be robber, but he's not worried about it. Everyone inside is still asleep. He already knows they had at least as late of a night as he did.

But this is a mistake.

He makes it as far as that big, pretentious fountain out front before he turns to retreat back the way he came. No one's seen him yet, he can drive off again and it'll be like he was never here at all. He'll stick to the plan and everything will work out the way it's supposed to. And who knows, maybe he can make Bruce understand as the Red Hood.

Or maybe he can just make Bruce understand as Jason Todd.

He kicks absently at the gravel with the toe of a boot, then does it once more a little harder, watching the pebbles soar. With a shrug he says to the ground, "Who says you can't go home?"

It's another whopping five steps towards the front step before he decides that actually, he does. He says he can't go home. When he thinks about it too long or too hard, he's not totally sure he ever had one to go home to.

And god, he hasn't felt like this much of a coward in years.

He turns to pace back down the stretch of driveway, freezes at the sound of a heavy front door unlatching. It's Alfred's voice that greets him, suspicious but not yet cold.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

No going back now.

Jason stays frozen another half second, debating whether or not to just run. He doesn't think Alfred would chase him, and even if he did, he's not fast enough to catch him.

He takes a steadying breath instead and turns back around. The cocky grin he flashes in greeting feels more like a charade than ever, but he stands by it. Miraculously manages not to totally betray his nerves as he says simply, "Hiya, Alfie. Miss me?"

Alfred pales. There's a certain irony to it, him being the one that looks like a ghost in this scenario.

"This can't be," he says, British and stupefied and Alfred. He takes a half step forward, as if too approach, but doesn't come any closer. Something adjacent to hope flickers across his expression, mixed in with the skepticism and shock. "Master Jason?"

"It's me, Alfred," Jason clarifies around the lump in his throat. "Sorry I'm late."

From there, everything moves quick enough that Jason can barely keep track of things.

The inside foyer is changed. There's a front table he doesn't recognize. A different glass case protecting that expensive, decorative vase that's been on display since forever. A line of gold colors the spiders web of cracks running down the side of the ceramic. There'll have to be time to wonder at the stories behind those changes later.

Right now, he has to focus on getting his fight or flight reflex under control.

Alfred is leading him towards the kitchens, saying something about "putting a kettle on" and sitting tight while "Master Bruce wakes himself up, he should be down in a moment." And he supposes Alfred must've alerted Bruce with a panic button of some sort, unwilling to leave this person that might or might not be Jason alone in the house to step away and wake Bruce himself.

It's a smart move. Jason wouldn't trust himself either.

That also means Bruce won't have any idea what he's stepping into when he comes into the kitchen, and this is one hell of a surprise to be waking up to.

But, true to his word, Alfred pulls a kettle down from the cupboards and places it over the stove. It's not until he indicates one of the stools at the kitchen island that Jason even realizes he's been loitering quite so stiffly in the doorway.

He didn't think he'd be sitting in this kitchen ever again. And there's a layer of wariness concealed behind Alfred's manners as he asks Jason what kind of tea he prefers, but the marble of the countertop is the same, even if the contents on top of it have shifted.

Bruce makes it to the kitchens with marked speed. Definitely a panic button.

"Alfred," Bruce says, sounding at once relieved and alarmed. Jason's back is to the doorway, but he can picture well enough the way Bruce takes in every little detail of the kitchen, trying to determine the exact nature of the threat.

"So sorry to wake you when you've finally gone to bed, sir," Alfred says primly, and with his easy mocking a sliver of the tension dissipates from the air. "I have a guest here I believe requires your attention."

Jason scoffs. "That's one way of putting it, I guess."

Sounding equal parts cynical and intrigued, Bruce inches further into the kitchen and asks, "And how would you put it?"

He only catches Alfred's end of the silent conversation exchanged between the pair of them, a slight pinch of the brow and the beginnings of a frown. He doesn't have to guess what they're talking about. From Bruce's perspective, there's a stranger sitting at a stool in his kitchen. He's still trying to gauge the threat level.

"I was just in the neighborhood," Jason says, aiming for playful but not entirely sure he hits the mark. As turns to face Bruce, he adds, "Thought I'd say hi."

The confidence in his tone wavers the instant they're face to face. He's sure he's not the only one that notices, but all things being equal, he's pretty sure he can pinpoint the exact second that Bruce recognizes him.

Nothing more theatrical than a faint gasp, a slight widening of the eyes. It's all the expression a brick wall is capable of displaying, but it's something.

It's gone in an instant, replaced by an expression that the world most often sees only the lower half of. He came here to talk to Bruce. It looks like, if he wants to do that, first he's going to have to go through Batman.

And he was prepared to be met with suspicion. In fact, it'd feel wrong if he wasn't. There's someone who's meant to be dead sitting on one of Bruce's kitchen stools, looking very alive. At best, it raises a couple of questions as to how he's not dead. It's more likely that he's some sort of an imposter, a meta or a shapeshifter of some sort. He knew they would have to be cautious.

Only the instant that Bruce's expression shifts towards suspicion, analyzing every detail in search of a trick or a trap, Jason has to really focus just to sit still.

He wants to run. Or yell, maybe. Break something. Do something that will get a reaction beyond tactical mistrust.

Something about being back in this house and locked under that piercing gaze makes him feel ridiculously small again. Maybe that's at least in part because he's the one that's seated right now, but there's more to it than that and he knows it. He doesn't just feel small, he feels young. Guilty, even.

Jason shouldn't have come. Bruce is going to connect the dots, of course he is. And when he does that's it. The plan goes right out the window. Whatever this little visit home is supposed to be right with it.

He's planning on telling Bruce eventually, just...not yet.

Any hidden layers of other emotion on Bruce's face are too well concealed by his suspicion. "If this is some sort of trick-"

"It's not," Jason says definitively, hopping off the stool to step closer. And yep, that small feeling had nothing to do with the height difference of being seated. "It's me, it's--I'm Jason."

"Prove it."

It's a fair request. Fairness of it aside, Jason hasn't prepared any decent responses for it. There's not a whole helluva lot he can think of that would prove he is who he says he is.

"What, you wanna see my autopsy scars?" he quips, lightly if mildly defensively. "How am I supposed to prove it, old man?"

There's the first flicker of something dancing behind his mask of caution. Hurt. Be it at the idea of Jason's autopsy (he doesn't like thinking about it either, it's creepy and wrong, and it always makes him shiver), or at hearing that old term of endearment again.

Dick's nickname for him was always the initial, plain and simple. Old man has more character, if you ask Jason. He very nearly asks Bruce what the replacement calls him. He doubts it's any real disposition for peacekeeping that stops him when the words are already on the tip of tongue.

More likely, it's Alfred volunteering, "Perhaps a DNA test would suffice?"

"It's a start," Bruce says skeptically.

"You wanna make me jump through hoops, I'll do it," Jason says, half a challenge and half an acceptance. "But I'm not asking how high."

Something almost familiar, almost approving, almost fond but not quite any of those things echoes in Bruce's tone as he murmurs, "I wouldn't expect you to."

* * *

A stiff silence follows them all the way down to the Batcave.

Neither Alfred nor Bruce seem more convinced one way or the other that Jason doesn't have to follow behind them, that he knows exactly which way to go to get there. They don't waste a lot of time in taking a DNA sample, and Jason perches on the edge of a table while Alfred runs it through the computer's sequencer. Stubbornly looks anywhere but at the glass display case a few short yards away.

It comes up as a match, because of course it does. So when they tell him he's passed the DNA test, he gasps in mock surprise and says, "And I didn't even study."

"There is the possibility a meta with shapeshifting abilities could alter DNA," Bruce says, an unspoken prompt as he narrows his eyes in Jason's direction.

"What other test would you propose, sir?"

Bruce glances between Alfred and Jason uncertainly. Leaning back on his hands, Jason offers, "We used to collect books together, first editions. That something an imposter would know?"

The corners of Bruce's eyebrows draw downwards. There's a suggestion of recognition, but it's not that Bruce actually believes him. It's that he wants to believe him. Which is, at least, a step.

"One who did their investigating, theoretically, yes."

"You're really gonna make me bring out the big guns, huh?"

Jason sighs, sitting up straight once more. Alfred and Bruce's eyes track his movements like a pair of overly invested researchers keeping watch over a risky experiment. Clinically inquisitive but far from detached.

It's kind of absurd to think they can be looking at him like that and not see that it's really him. Especially when, locked under their combined attention as tightly as he is, he can't help feeling totally and entirely transparent. Like every secret he's keeping has been scrawled across his skin in thick and heavy permanent marker, and they're staring so long trying to read it all. The ongoing list of his transgressions.

He wonders how much easier they would both see through him if they only knew what they were looking for.

"The year you took me in I made you a Father's Day card, with a crappy origami bat," Jason says, locking eyes with Bruce, something he wasn't expecting to be so terrifying. He imagines coming all this way and having them not believe him. Continues steadily, "And when I gave it to you, you cried."

It's like an exaggerated reenactment of Bruce's initial shock at first seeing him in the kitchen. He stumbles back a step, belief at last ringing loud and clear as he says, "Jason?"

"Yeah," he says earnestly. "That's what I've been trying to tell y-- _oof."_

The end of that sentence cuts off abruptly as Jason's engulfed in a hug so sudden it knocks the wind right out of him.

For a full three seconds he has no idea what he's supposed to do here. No one's done this, that he can remember, since he died. He feels his shoulders tense on instinct, muscle memory far better trained for an attack than an embrace. But once he realizes he's supposed to hug back he does, purposefully bringing his arms up around Bruce's shoulders.

There's a hand pressed against the nape of his neck that in a fight would scream danger, and he's pretty sure the sharp edge of a chin resting against the top of his head is supposed to feel uncomfortable, but all it feels is safe.

Bruce's voice is more haunted than he was expecting when it murmurs into his hair, "You died."

"I know." He was there, after all.

Bruce's arms squeeze him tighter, as if hoping to affirm that he's actually there. Of all the reactions Jason's played out in his head, and he was sure he'd gone over them all, this might just be the one he was least prepared for. Bruce takes in a steadying breath and says, his voice the kind of clear that requires a conscious effort, "I'm sorry."

Jason shuts his eyes and breaths in time with the rise and fall of Bruce's chest, and imagines a world in which he both knows that to be true and believes it. Says again, slightly muted, "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway i've decided that canon is my bitch now, and jason is going to be loved and part of the family. it's gonna be a rocky journey, but it's gonna happen come hell or high water.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	2. tried to square not being there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from james bay's 'hold back the river'

Naturally, they've got questions.

Jason's prepared for them to have questions, he has answers. Ones that have been meticulously, if silently, rehearsed since the thought of coming home first crossed his mind. There's a logical order to which they'll ask them, he's played it all out. He knows what he can be honest about and where he still has to lie. Just for now.

There's a way to explain himself without compromising the plan, he just has to feel comfortable compromising something else.

And he hates the thought of lying to Alfred especially, Alfred's never lied to him once, but he'll do what he has to do. Coming here at all was a moment of weakness, but he's _here_ to protect his city. That has to come first. The Red Hood has to come first.

Which is why it's such a relief when the first thing that Bruce wants to know is, "How are you here? What happened?"

Because he knew it would be the first thing they'd want to know. Because it means the first answer Jason's giving them after all these years doesn't have to be a lie.

The flicker of guilt coloring Bruce's tone in his asking, like he's searching not just for an explanation but for a way this was his fault, wasn't part of the scenario in Jason's imagination.

It's the closest thing to a superpower that Batman has, carrying guilt in Herculean loads. Jason knows that, he just never thought it would apply here. Didn't think he was something Bruce still carried guilt over. If he is, then why wasn't it enough to change anything? Why wasn't there ever any justice?

"Your guess is as good as mine," he says, shrugging with practiced nonchalance. "Woke up in a box, didn't remember much."

That's a simplified enough version of events. The rest is still somewhat hazy, even now.

He knows he dug his own way out, clawed really. But there's a blur between taking in his first gasp of crisp cemetery air and meeting Talia al-Ghul. His subsequent swim in the Glowstick Hot Tub from Hell. (The folks at the League hate when he calls it that, so the nickname sticks.) Some days he feels like he's missing time. Some days he remembers everything and nothing all at once.

And he recognizes that specific brand of stiffness in Bruce's voice. The one he uses to cover up real emotion. He says, "You woke up in your coffin."

Jason can't tell if that's a question or not. He nods, just in case.

Bruce mirrors the gesture, frowning in thought, arms folded across his chest. He looks uncomfortable. Upset. Jason's pretty sure he can anticipate the next question. It's one he's considered lying about, even though he knows he can't conceivably get away with it.

"How long has it been?" Bruce asks.

And Jason doesn't look anything like he did when they buried him, it's obvious it's been years. If the timeline he's pieced together after the fact has any accuracy to it, he was only dead for a year at the most. The rest of the time he's been gone it's been his decision, not death's. He doesn't want to tell them that.

He doesn't want to explain that staying away was a choice. 

"Awhile," Jason admits, averting his gaze. It's only a lie by omission, he says, "I came home as soon as I could."

As soon as he was ready.

There's another small, robotic nod and then Bruce is pacing away from them.

Anger has always been the most adept emotion at breaking past the Batman's adamantine mask of stone. Anger isn't still. It demands an action. Bruce's back is to them when he asks, "Were you alone?"

"What?" Jason says, shifting his weight uncomfortably to one side.

That's not one of the questions he's rehearsed his answers for. Bruce can't know about the League of Assassins already, how can he know already? That's not fair.

Alfred places a hand on Jason's shoulder, firm but featherlight. A reassurance for a doubt Jason wasn't even aware he'd been displaying. It's as anchoring as it is concerning. He doesn't want them to be able to read him this well; he's so relieved that they even still can.

"Were you alone?" Bruce repeats, turning back around again.

Jason gambles and says, "Yeah. For the most part."

It doesn't feel one hundred percent like a lie, but he has to look away after he's said it. Which he knows is a glaring, neon sign of either deception or shame. Either one of which is cause for suspicion.

But he can't look Bruce in the eye and talk about this. He doesn't want to see the anger there, not so soon. Not here, and not when he can still feel the phantom security of Bruce holding him in his arms again, just like when he was small, telling him everything was going to be okay.

At first, he thinks Bruce is mad because he knows he's lying. Then the pacing resumes and, once he's fallen into a set path, he lets out an aggravated sigh and announces, "I should've been there."

"You didn't know," Jason says, more rationally than he feels.

He did, for a time, resent Bruce for not being there. He knows it's not Bruce's fault. Even the Batman can't plan for spontaneous resurrection.

Still, even knowing it's not Bruce's fault, some days he can't help but think. He didn't bother filling the hole back in once he clawed his way out of the earth. Anyone with eyes as keen as Bruce's would have noticed something about the dirt, even if the groundskeeper filled it back in, if they actually took the time to visit. Wouldn't they?

"Well I should have known," Bruce says.

Maybe it's counterintuitive, but it's a lot harder to blame Bruce for things when he's so readily blaming himself before Jason gets the chance.

"How could you possibly have known?" Alfred says.

"I should've known," Bruce insists definitively. His gaze lands back on Jason, and in the instant it does a majority of the ire seems at once dissipate. His shoulders slump at his sides and he says openly, remorsefully, "You should never have gone through this alone. I'm sorry."

This is almost worse than the suspicion was.

He can understand suspicion, he can process it. It's warranted, he's hiding something. But this? Compassion? He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with this. Bruce's apologies seem genuine and it contradicts everything he's come to believe about their places in each other's lives while he's been away.

He scoffs dismissively. "I handled myself alright."

"As you always do, dear boy," Alfred says, voice tinged with something bittersweet. A strange mixture of fond and melancholic that makes him feel all the guiltier for not being able--not being _willing_ to share the full truth.

He manages a semi-convincing smile and raises a hand of his own to rest over Alfred's, where it still sits warmly on his shoulder. When he offers up a single truth, he tells himself it's to soften the damage of the lies and no other reason. Letting out a small breath, he nods and says frankly, "I missed you, Alf."

So damn much.

Alfred's smile is more rueful than triumphant.

"And I you, sir," he says. Then, withdrawing his hand, "Well, I had best get breakfast started. I'll leave you and Master Bruce down here for now, I'm sure you have a fair bit more to discuss."

This last part delivered glancing back and forth between the two of them. Bruce gives a wordless, meaningful nod in response.

Jason's nerves jumpstart with the split second's silence that accompanies Alfred's departure.

Just because Bruce doesn't seem to have connected the dots yet doesn't mean he won't. Doesn't even mean he hasn't. There's next to no telling what the Batman knows at any given moment. And there's a number of reactions to learning he's the one Bruce was trading fists with under that cochineal red helmet across rooftops last night, but none of them facilitate much success in the rest of Jason's plan.

If it comes to it, he has at least two viable escape routes planned out. If it comes to it, Bruce is probably accounting for those already, too.

But he's getting ahead of himself.

"I'm sure you being here right now is as much for you to process as it is for Alfred and I," Bruce says, the suggestion of a question coloring his words as he moves to sit down on the table at Jason's side.

Jason offers a one shouldered shrug. "Think I'll manage."

"I don't doubt that."

He lets the quiet stretch on for a minute. He knows there's more Bruce wants to say than just that. But Bruce isn't pushing, and Jason hates waiting. After a moment he huffs and says, "I know you're gonna have questions, you can ask them."

Bruce looks back over at him and takes in a breath to speak, and this is it. He's going to ask where Jason's been all this time, or why he stayed away so long only to come back now. And when Jason lies he's going to know it, and it won't take the world's greatest detective to realize his real reason for returning to Gotham City. That the Red Hood came to town around the same time Jason Todd did.

He stiffens and faces stubbornly forward, like the time he broke his wrist in a field exercise and Talia had to set the bone for him. Bracing for the pain before it comes. He's got a whole lifetime of experience teaching him that it only makes things hurt more, but he can't help it.

Except the pain doesn't come.

Bruce lets go of a gentle sigh, only audible thanks to the utter silence the rest of the cave sits in, and tracks Jason's gaze over to that horrible display case on a pedestal across the way.

"I won't push you into talking about it right now," Bruce says, far too empathetic, far too careful. "But for everyone's safety, yours included, there are some things I need to know. Short answers are fine, I just need honest ones."

Safety. If only he knew.

Jason swallows the bitter remark about how relying on Bruce for safety historically goes for him, and the one that follows about how he can protect himself just fine thanks. It takes some effort, but he swallows them. He's here to try and repair things, before he loses that opportunity for good. And if that happens, well then he can be as bitter as he damn well pleases as the Red Hood.

"Got it," he answers instead. "Fire away."

"When you chose to stay away from Gotham," Bruce asks, infuriatingly cautious. "Did you have any reason to believe you or anyone here would be under threat if you returned?"

Jason's shoulders tense in preparation for the accusation that surely follows the honest answer to that question. He starts defensively, "I didn't remember anything, Bruce. I only knew my own name because it was on the damn headstone-"

"I'm not angry with you, Jason," Bruce interrupts calmly. "I just need to know."

As if any of this is as simple as that.

He consciously works on unclenching his jaw, and gives the faintest shake of his head. Answers crisply, "No."

"And coming home?" Bruce prompts, a little too businesslike for his comfort. "Is there anyone after you? Anything we need to know about?"

"Jesus, no," Jason says with a derisive snort. "I can protect myself, y'know. Do you really think if I was in that kind of trouble I'd bring it down on any of you?"

So much for keeping his cool.

"I think you stayed away for a long time, Jay. You must've had a good reason," Bruce says, and the fact that it's not actually coming out as an accusation doesn't do what it should to calm him down. At least he knows Bruce isn't suspicious yet, because if he were, he wouldn't sound anywhere near this understanding. "I just want to make sure that you're safe."

He actually sounds like he means it.

Jason doesn't know why that pisses him off so much. It slips out before he can think better of it, that, "That ship kinda sailed already, don't you think?"

The sorrow that passes across Bruce's face is an ancient one, well worn and sturdy, like an old winter coat. This precise moment is far from the first time that look has stared out at the world from Bruce's eyes on account of him, he knows. But him being here is maybe making it worse. It was supposed to make it better. Why isn't it making it better?

"Jason," Bruce starts, voice tentative in a way Batman's voice should never be.

God, he wanted to clear the air and instead he's making everything worse. He scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair, if only for an excuse not to look at that face for just a second. Says, "Stop. Bruce, you don't have to apologize."

"Yes," he says, never one to be swayed so easily, "I do."

"You don't. I didn't mean anything by-"

"It was my job to protect you, and I failed."

"I don't blame you for that," Jason snaps, a little too forcefully, inwardly wincing at the way his wording suggests he does blame Bruce for something. It won't go unnoticed.

He wasn't expecting Bruce to actually care so damn much. And there's not a way to explain that he's not mad about Bruce not saving him, not without having to explain everything that he is mad about. And that conversation isn't part of the plan until later. Besides, he's not ready to have it. Having Alfred and Bruce look at him like he's something special isn't something he ever thought he'd have again. It goes away the second the truth comes out.

He doesn't want it to go away. He hasn't even talked to Dick yet.

He just has to get Bruce to leave it alone, for now. He has a feeling he knows how to do that.

Jason looks down, tugging at a loose thread on the shirtsleeve poking out from beneath his jacket. He tries softly, "Can we just no talk about me dying right now? Please?"

It's an underhanded card to play, but it works like a charm.

That ache in Bruce's eyes doesn't fade away it just shifts a little. He nods and says, a fair deal gentler, "Of course."

And he leaves it alone just like that. Jason feels slimy.

"You wanna go see if Alfred needs help with breakfast?" Jason changes the subject.

Bruce takes it for the olive branch it maybe is, and then he takes that olive branch. With a self-deprecating chuckle, he answers, "I think we both know Alfred doesn't want my help in a kitchen."

There's something weirdly, unexpectedly heartwarming about the thought of Bruce's cooking abilities not having improved even after all this time.

"Some things never change, huh?"

"Your perfect timing, for example," Bruce says as they start back up towards the kitchens. "Your brother's visiting from Bludhaven."

He does a pretty decent job at pretending that's a surprise. "Dick's here?"

Bruce nods. "In a heated snoring contest with Ace, no doubt. I can wake him for breakfast, that might go over better than another panic button."

Jason tenses. It's not even about the secrets this time.

He hasn't really seen Dick yet, not even under the Hood. The closest they've come is the sights of a sniper rifle several buildings away, and a failed attempt at a rooftop pursuit. He doesn't know what to expect. Dick might not even want to see him. It's not like they were ever particularly close before.

And Bruce's reaction has already been so far off from what Jason was prepared for. If he's going to be here, he needs to be able to predict their behaviors.

"Or," Bruce starts, and Jason's really got to get a handle on concealing his emotions better if this is going to work. "If that seems a bit overwhelming, we can hold off on talking to Dick."

"No, I just figure, knowing you two, he probably needs the sleep."

"Probably, but I think he'll want to know about this," Bruce tells him, voice light and measured, as if it's okay either way. With a shrug he says, "And I can get some revenge for all the mornings he's woken me up at some ungodly hour. But it's your choice."

Jason considers it for a moment.

Not whether or not he wants to see Dick, he already knows the answer to that. But the easy way in which Bruce says that it's his choice, like it's something incredibly simple.

A part of him is quickly becoming frustrated with this untoward level of compassion. He doesn't need to be treated like something fragile, he's not going to break just because something might be 'a bit overwhelming.' Unbelievable as it may seem, he's endured far worse than an early morning conversation with Dick Grayson.

Another part of him actually does feel safer. Protected and important.

The first part of him is also very quickly becoming frustrated with the second part.

But if he needs to be able to predict their behaviors, and any of them are going to be any more different than he's accounted for, it's probably best to find that out sooner rather than later. "Yeah," he says around a sigh. "I'd like to see him."

Bruce gives him a small smile. It does nothing to help Jason's indecisiveness.

They walk the rest of the way up to the kitchens in about the same level of silence they walked down in, although Jason's sure a majority of the tension is all in his head this time. Bruce is always quiet. It doesn't mean he's analyzing every one of Jason's actions for some hidden danger, not the way Jason's analyzing his.

And he's not pushing Jason to talk to him. Something that's more reassuring than it should be, seeing as Jason's sole purpose for coming here was to have a conversation.

Bruce leaves him outside the kitchen doorway to go and wake Dick.

Jason loiters for another second in the hallway. A little lost in thought, listening to Alfred gently humming Paganini to the orchestra of hot butter and a frying pan. It's almost unnerving, how normal it all seems.

He makes a point of not walking quite so quietly as he steps into the kitchen, but Alfred probably knew he was there already anyway. He asks with casual interest, "So if Dick's in town, it's probably not for a vacation, is it?"

"Hm," Alfred agrees. "A new player arrived a few weeks ago."

He should probably leave it at that. But now he's asked, it might be more suspicious to drop the conversation. Besides, he has to admit he's kind of curious.

"New player?" he echoes with a frown. "Is it serious?"

"Nothing worth worrying over," Alfred says, taking a second to send a reassuring look over his shoulder before returning his attention to the stovetop. "Master Bruce and Master Dick have it under control, I'm sure you have more pressing issues to focus on."

"Like what?" His frown feels a little more genuine.

Alfred indicates a mixing bowl sitting beside the stovetop, as if the answer should be obvious, and clarifies gravely, "Chocolate chips or blueberries?"

"Pancakes," Jason says, feeling the beginnings of a smile despite himself. 

"Pancakes."

* * *

After some careful debating, they settle on chocolate chip.

Jason pushes his luck sitting on top of the counter while Alfred's cooking, and is strangely relieved to discover that being dead for a couple of years isn't even enough to excuse anyone from Alfred's disdain for improper manners. Alfred clears his throat pointedly, without so much as glancing up from the mixing bowl, and Jason hops back down.

He helps out by grabbing a couple of plates down from the cupboards, leaving them in a small stack at the corner before returning to the kitchen stools.

Alfred's just finishing up with cooking when Bruce returns, dragging a sleep addled Dick Grayson in tow behind him.

"Alright, I'm here. What's going..." Dick starts from the doorway, dropping the end of the question with a perplexed sort of hum when his gaze lands on Jason sitting at the edge of the island.

"Hi," Jason says, raising a hand in a brief wave.

"Hi," Dick echoes, blinking.

The half-empty water glass in his left hand goes for the floor the second recognition flickers across his face. Bruce catches it as soon as it's left Dick's grip without so much as looking.

"Sorry," Dick says, running a tired hand down his face. "I know I'm seeing things, but I don't remember hitting my head last night."

"Because you didn't," Bruce says.

"Yeah, that makes sense," he concedes with an easy nod. He turns back to Jason then, quirking an eyebrow and asking, "Poison?"

Technically, Jason doubts he would know the answer to that if he was a hallucination. He offers a light shrug, resting his elbow on the counter behind him, and jokes, "No thanks."

Clapping a hand on Dick's shoulder, Bruce explains patiently, "You're not seeing things. It's really him. We don't know how, but it's him."

"But that's," Dick starts, eyebrows furrowing. "But you...but how can...Huh?"

"Eloquent as ever, big bird."

He's at least moderately more prepared for the hug this time around. Which means that, with focus, he's able to remind himself that he's not under any immediate threat right now. He's able to avoid the initial reaction of tensing up and skip right head to the step where he hugs Dick back. Maybe it helps that he doesn't feel quite as small in Dick's arms, there'd be less danger if this were a fight.

All the same, Jason can only accept it for a few too short seconds. The warning bell sounds off in his head to remind him that Wayne Manor is technically enemy territory now. That allowing himself to feel this safe is a risk he can't run anyway.

Dick somehow senses it the second Jason decides the hugging is too much. He doesn't know, he's been focusing so hard on masking any of his tells. But Dick picks up on them anyway and pulls away, stepping back to allow a little more space between them. He looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I have questions," he says.

Great, those again.

"How 'bout a speed run?" Jason says, gesturing towards the empty stool at his side. "Yes, it's me. No, I don't know how. Yes, I stayed away awhile. And no, I don't wanna talk about it. That about cover it all?"

"Actually," Dick says, gaze flitting up towards Jason's forehead as he drops onto the stool. "I was gonna ask about the hair."

He can't help it, he laughs.

That's not what Dick was going to ask and they both know it.

Jason brushes a hand slightly self-consciously through his hair, where that stubborn white streak sits. Says, "Y'know, I tried dyeing over it. Nothing sticks."

It's stubborn like that.

Dick chuckles, just like he's supposed to. Then the kitchen lapses back into a deceptive quiet, and Jason winces preemptively at what he knows is coming next. Eyes fixed on the counter in front of him, Dick says, "You said you stayed away for awhile?"

"Yeah," he says solemnly. Almost apologizes. Doesn't.

An apology at this point would be a band-aid for a bullet hole. He doesn't plan on explaining anything with any degree of honesty yet, as much as it kills him not to. That part has to wait. Which means so does the apology.

And besides, he doesn't regret staying away. If he'd come straight to Gotham he'd have been useless to help anyone. He has more training now, a better understanding of how the world works, and a stronger concept of how to actually help the city. All he really regrets, if anything, is that his staying away hurt them. He didn't think that it would.

"You let us think you were dead," Dick says, almost conversationally, fingers drumming against the marble countertop.

"Yeah," Jason makes himself answer.

The following silence, he knows, is Dick offering a chance to explain himself. A reason to leave them to their undue mourning when he was alive. Dick wants to understand more than he wants to accuse.

But Jason can't explain. He lets the chance slip past.

For such a simple question, there's really no simple way to ask it. Dick sounds angry, and wounded, and tired, and Jason wishes an apology could even be enough to fix it. "Why didn't you just come home?"

Home.

He wasn't sure he would have been welcome and, even sitting here now, he's not sure that's what this place is anymore.

It looks like home. Complete with Alfred's warm perceptiveness, Bruce's preternatural ability to make him feel safe even despite everything, Dick cracking jokes about his hair in the face of the unbelievable. Trust that he hasn't remotely begun to earn and certainly doesn't deserve. It looks an awful lot like home.

But he hasn't been here that long. All of their warmth is for a dead boy, the wayward Robin. They're blind to how he's changed. Wayne Manor might be a home, but it's not his anymore.

"I wasn't ready," Jason says, and at least that much is true.

He's more than familiar enough with the practice to recognize the effort it takes for Dick to bottle up all of that anger and all of that hurt enough to put a cap on it and set it aside. A drop or two of the hurt remains once the clean up is over, smoothed over by a sympathy that's just a little too genuine.

"Well, whatever changed," Dick says. "I'm glad it did."

That, he thinks to himself with a twinge of ironic humor, probably won't last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the white streak isn't in that many of the comics, but you'll have pry it out of my cold dead hands.


	3. like an empty sail takes the wind, and tell me some things last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from 'heal' by tom odell

As it turns out, post-miraculous resurrection announcement family breakfasts are about as awkward and tense as Jason would have anticipated them to be. That is, if he'd actually thought this part through beyond initial reactions and deflecting suspicions. If he'd actually thought having pancakes in the Wayne Manor kitchen was something he'd ever do again in his life.

It's quiet at first.

He supposes he can't really blame them for not knowing what to say. It's not like there's a script for stuff like this, and he didn't offer them a whole lot of time to prepare.

That being said, they keep doing this thing where they'll look over at him and then immediately look away when he catches them. Bruce is at least a little more subtle about it than Dick. In either case though, it's nerve-wracking.

"Is there something on my face?" he says at last, when the frustration finally gets the better of him.

There's a murmured chorus of "Sorry" before his peripheral vision catches them turning back away. If they're still harboring doubts he'd much rather they voice them. All of this tip-toeing around the subject is starting to get old. Alfred, at least, has the guts to say something.

"Infrequent an event as it may be, given the lives we lead," he says, tone bordering on the apologetic. "It appears we are all still capable of experiencing shock."

"I know," Jason says, his anger deflating just as quickly as it had appeared. Lifting his coffee mug with stifled embarrassment for his temper, he quips lightly, "Here's to small miracles, right?"

Dick snorts. "Coming back from the dead is a _small_ miracle?"

Coming back from the dead isn't a miracle at all. It's a damn crucible.

"Actually, I meant that Batman can still be surprised by things," Jason corrects, indicating Bruce with a nod.

The humor, he hopes, does a decent job at smoothing over some of the tension. What this conversation really needs is a good, solid deflection. It's not like he can keep telling them not to look so closely--saying he doesn't want to talk about it when they have questions, getting upset about a few passing glances--they might start to wonder what it is that he doesn't want them to see.

"It's been known to happen, now and then," Bruce says, with a fond sort of offhandedness. "And when it does, one of you is generally the cause."

"We gotta keep you on your toes somehow, B," Dick says, elbows on the counter in front of him.

Alfred offers a disapproving hum. "Indeed. Is that what you call Sunday's chandelier incident?"

"That was an accident," Dick answers indignantly.

Alfred shakes his head, but it's obvious that there's nothing but warmth behind that reproachful stare.

The exchange is so ridiculously affectionate and familiar, it's almost too much to witness. It stings a little, to think of all the ways in which their worlds kept spinning without him, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He chose not to be here. No, there's more to it than that.

It's that he honestly can't remember the last time he saw people be so openly comfortable with one another.

The Assassins he's been training with have people that they care about too, of course they do. But every member of the League is at once family and expendable, that's the only way they've managed to do what they do for so long. Maximize the benefits of loyalty and familiarity, minimize the risks of attachment and grief. It's a difficult dichotomy to balance, something that's not made any easier by things like sentiment.

Something Jason should keep in mind, seeing as the people in this room are obstacles to the mission.

Still, he somehow finds himself nudging Bruce's side with his elbow and asking, "Is the chandelier incident what it sounds like?"

With a weary sigh, Bruce confirms, "Exactly what it sounds like."

* * *

After breakfast, Jason follows Alfred out back for a walk across the grounds. It's ostensibly to give him a hand watering the plants in the greenhouse, and maybe do some light catching up. Jason's just happy for the excuse to survey the property for any new security devices that might've been added while he's been away. Cameras, sensors. When it comes to preparedness, Bruce follows the old 'you can never be too careful' maxim to the letter.

Fortunately, Jason's good at this.

He's been good at this since long before his time training with Talia, even before his time training with Bruce. In Crime Alley you've either got to be intimidating or invisible, and the former isn't an easy option for a scrawny, starving kid. Jason might have a flair for the dramatic these days, but he's been learning how to come and go unseen since most kids start learning to ride a bike.

It requires a good deal more effort to pull off when it's Batman he wants to go unnoticed by.

Alfred's voice pulls him back out of his thoughts. "Would it be too presumptuous to make up a room for you?"

"Um," Jason says, less than eloquently.

The implied consideration that he might not be comfortable staying at the Manor throws him off a little. Maybe just because he'd never thought of the options as anything but come home or don't come home, stay away or stay.

If he was a smart man, he'd choose to leave.

It would make balancing his night life and whatever this is that much easier. He could go back to the empty, quiet safehouse he's got set up in the city but keep in contact with them. Figure out a way to talk things out with Bruce, and maybe he'll understand. Maybe Jason won't have to choose between his city and his family.

Even in his head it sounds ridiculous.

If he were a smarter man, he'd never have come here at all.

But he did, and he's here, and Alfred wants to know if he's staying. And at least if he stays it'll make monitoring their approach to catching the Red Hood that much simpler. Even if it does complicate other things.

Jason makes himself shrug. Says with forced ease, "Yeah, I could stick around, for a bit."

"Wonderful," Alfred says, a distinct relief sitting behind the formality of it.

The greenhouse is, and always was, a kind of liminal space. Organized neatly into a natural chaos. It's cluttered where the rest of the manor is orderly and pristine, and it's the first space on the property that Jason's been relieved to find has changed. There's no missing stories behind any of the differences here, just growth.

"I used to love this place," Jason murmurs, glancing up at the angled glass of the roof.

Alfred's smile is warmer this time, but there's still something sad in it. "I remember," he says, retrieving an old metal watering can. "I nearly tripped over many a textbook when you first took to doing your homework in here."

"Hey, at least I was doing it." God, that whole memory feels worlds away.

Jason drops the thread of the conversation after that, and Alfred lets him, so he meanders further inside while Alfred sets to watering the geraniums.

He only noticed two new security cameras on the walk out here, which means that there's probably more. It complicates things, just a bit, but he's certain he can find a way past them.

He's still got plenty of time to map the grounds and find the hole in Bruce's security system. (Something he did learn from the League? _Every_ security system has a gap or a blind-spot. It's just a matter of knowing where to look.) He doesn't have to hijack Black Mask's newest munitions shipment until this Friday, which gives him three days to find a route off the grounds undetected.

Sure, he'll want to do recon before that. But he doesn't need all the cloak and dagger for that. He can just say he's headed into the city, no lies even required, and scout the area as a passerby.

By far the more pressing concern is that he's expecting for--hoping for--a certain dynamic duo to try to intercept his intercepting of the shipment. Sneaking out is one thing. He needs to know he can get there before Dick and Bruce do.

He has to admit, he's not looking forward to the encounter quite as much as he was before he saw them up close.

"Lost in thought, sir?"

Ah, crap. Apparently.

He hadn't even realized Alfred was finished watering the plants. He's supposed to be significantly more aware of his surroundings than that.

"Guess so," Jason says, glancing up with a frown. He shouldn't be letting his guard down like that, doesn't remember deciding to. It's just easier than he expected to slip back into old habits in Alfred's company. Which probably contributes to the candor of his answer, "Sorry. There's just a lot on my mind, I guess."

"Returning home after a long time away will do that, to speak nothing of everything else," Alfred says in perfect understanding. "Anything you feel a discussion would help?"

Nothing. Everything.

He'd be lying if he said a greenhouse heart to heart with Alfred lost its appeal after he died. But he can't.

"No," he says, after a little too much consideration. "But thanks."

The thing is, Alfred's just a little disappointed in his answer. He can tell. And it's not for anything as pertinent as curiosity either, although that would be by far the more believable explanation. Because the information might be important, or useful. Jason hasn't been exactly subtle about not telling them things, and especially knowing what he does, he couldn't fault any one of them remotely for pressing for information.

But while Alfred's interest is analytical, it's not interrogative. He's not asking for the information's sake, he's asking for Jason's.

The poor bastard actually wants to help.

"Very well," Alfred says with an accepting nod. "Should you change your mind, I'm always available."

He knows Alfred's not making false promises here, that when he says always he means always. After going so long without being offered anything like that, hearing someone promise to be there, hearing _Alfred_ promise to be there should logically be a comfort. Instead all it does is make him angry, and he doesn't even know why.

He doesn't think it's actually Alfred that he's mad at. The insinuation that he even needs someone to help him, maybe. Or the fact that he even wants to accept the invitation as strongly as he does. 

"I appreciate that," Jason says levelly. It's difficult to get a cap on an aggravation he's clueless as to the source of though, he's not entirely confident he manages it.

"But?" Alfred prompts knowingly.

Dammit. "You know me," he says indifferently. "I never really did like talking it out."

It's met with a cynical sort of sigh, but for now Alfred seems to buy it. He shakes his head and says, "Yes, that particular attitude seems to be quite popular around here."

Boy does he know it. The way of the bats is to shoulder everything yourself, no matter how heavy. Never mind that they'll go to utterly ridiculous lengths to help support someone else, be it one of their own or a complete stranger. They don't accept that same courtesy with ease. Always the hero never the victim, he supposes.

That part isn't him anymore. A hero has never actually saved anyone, just nudged the trouble a little further down the road. Jason knows the difference now.

"Glad to know I still fit right in," Jason remarks.

A joke to lighten the mood. But he's more than a little frustrated when he realizes he probably would be glad, if it were still true. Ignorance is bliss, or something like that.

"Always, Master Jason," Alfred says, as if the very idea of thinking otherwise is entirely preposterous.

He has to wonder if Alfred could still feel that way if he had taken him up on that offer to talk.

* * *

Back inside, Dick and Bruce are hovering in the sitting room. Sharing the couch and looking fairly normal, if not for the fact they're talking exclusively in hushed voices, in an otherwise empty area of the house. If that wasn't enough to give the topic of conversation away, the fact they both fall silent as soon as Jason appears in the doorway would be.

He doesn't mind, per se, but he is a little curious what they've been saying. He can imagine Dick trying to convince Bruce to test him for vampirism just as well as he can imagine they're debating possibilities as to where he's been all this time. The former might be a little ridiculous, but still in character, and hey, Jason not being dead is a little ridiculous.

Either way, he knows this won't feel normal for any of them for some time. He just wishes they'd stop acting like they're walking on eggshells with him.

"Jason," Bruce says. It falls somewhere on the border between familiar and bizarre. Not unlike how Jason feels hearing Bruce say his name again. "Is Alfred still outside?"

"Making sure Ace goes for a walk," Jason explains with a light nod. "I guess it's supposed to rain. Big shocker there."

"Yeah, I bet you didn't miss Gotham weather," Dick says warmly.

"It wasn't top of the list."

"What was?"

Going by the way Dick asks, casually and in passing, it's not something he thinks about before saying. Just the natural, conversational response. A flicker of guilt passes over his expression when he seems to realize what he asked. Although it's tough to tell whether he feels bad asking simply because Jason said he doesn't want to talk about his time away, or because he knows the answer.

Jason's spent the better part of the last few years trying to deny the answer, both to himself and to Talia. He was never convinced and neither was she, which is why he's sure the truth must already be clear to them.

Top of the list is, of course, sitting in this room. And outside, walking Ace the Bat Hound.

"Bat Burger," Jason bluffs, leaning a shoulder against the doorway. "Duh."

Dick catches onto the humor and seems to take it as an invitation. He asks, somewhat cautiously, "Was it sunny, where you were? You look tanner."

Despite the cheerful, friendly exterior, Dick Grayson is just as much a bat as the rest of them. Observant. Calculating. Endearingly manipulative. He doesn't give a shit about the weather, he just wants to know how much he can get away with pushing. What Jason's willing to tell them about the time he was gone for.

The short answer? Not much.

But he's also loathe to shut the questioning down entirely. Some degree of openness is required if he wants to keep the trust he doesn't actually deserve. And it might help put an end to this relentless tip-toeing routine, too.

"Yeah, I guess," he answers noncommittally. Debates about how much it'd be giving away, then shrugs and admits, "I wasn't in one spot the whole time."

"Oh," Dick says, a very strange mixture of relieved and upset. All of which is schooled back to neutral in time for him to wisecrack, "Did you get to see Aruba?"

"I wasn't on a fucking vacation, Dick."

It comes out a good deal harsher than he intends for it to, but Dick doesn't look offended. He just nods. If Jason knows Dick, and he's fairly confident he still does, then he's updating the mental file on where the line is drawn for conversation about where Jason's been. If it were a real file, he'd be drawing a big X in red marker next to a category titled 'playful sarcasm.'

Even if Dick doesn't look offended, it's a flash of anger Jason wasn't planning on displaying. He had a better handle on his temper outside Gotham city limits.

With a light huff, Jason amends, "Sorry. Rough subject, I guess."

"Yeah, I get it," Dick says. He doesn't, but damn if he isn't trying.

Jason doesn't want him trying. It might be a reassurance now, but it's going to end bad later down the line. Dick's going to connect dots he's not supposed to and they'll both get hurt.

Bruce brushes past the remaining awkwardness with a well timed, if inelegantly executed, subject change.

"Anyway," he says, straightforward but not dismissive. "There's one more thing I need to speak with you about, sooner rather than later."

It's a good thing Jason's accustomed to a fairly constant state of hypervigilance, or all of this on and off interrogation might start to create an issue. He was expecting it, but even still, it's damn draining.

"It isn't exactly my favorite conversation topic, Bruce," Jason says, making sure to let a degree of weariness shape his sigh. It'll be more effective than his frustration, in this instance. He lifts an eyebrow and asks, half sarcasm half entreaty, "Can we table the rest of the cross-examination for later, please?"

"I'm done prying until you're ready to talk, promise," Bruce assures him. "It's actually something I want to tell you."

Jason frowns.

He hadn't accounted for this, he's got no clue what Bruce has to tell him. Maybe it's not something he wants to hear. If that's the case, he'd probably better hear it.

"Okay," he says, crossing to take a seat in the armchair by the couch. "Hit me."

"There's someone you're going to meet, he's in Jump City Bay right now but he's coming back tomorrow. His name's Tim."

There's only one thing in Jump City Bay that's a point of any interest. It's where the Teen Titans operate. This is about the Replacement.

If he's out of town that at least explains why there haven't been any Robin sightings while Jason's been wearing the Hood. He's been keeping an eye out. It's half motivated by practicality, the new Robin is a largely unknown variable, but he'll admit he's also curious. They replaced him pretty quick, was the new kid that impressive, or was Jason just that expendable?

And Jason figures hearing about it beforehand is probably kinder than just introducing them whenever the Replacement is expected back, but he's not entirely sure how he's supposed to react to being told either. He wasn't expecting a warning.

Tim, he thinks sourly, is kind of a stupid fucking name.

At least if he makes this easier on them the conversation will be over sooner. He nods and prompts, "Robin three point O?"

"You knew?" Dick says, head titling just a little sideways.

Jason wonders if he should be offended. With a shrug, he says, "I kept up with the news a bit."

Just enough to know Gotham didn't change when he died. It's the same city today as it was when he left. It took some digging, but he even found the names of the first three people the Joker killed after him. Three more people Bruce never saved. And the list just keeps going.

And the papers never even seemed to connect that it was a different Robin, but they weren't shy about singing the Replacement's praises.

"Are you mad?"

It's Dick's question, but it's Bruce's gaze that Jason finds the second he's asked. It doesn't seem fair for a question no longer than three words to make him feel this fucking trapped. He wishes Dick knew when to shut up.

More than that, he wishes it didn't sound like it makes so much sense when he answers, "No. I chose to stay away, and besides, Gotham's a shithole. I'm glad Batman had backup."

Never mind that a significant factor in his decision to stay away was that they'd already found this Tim kid. He just might have come home if he'd had reason to believe that was something that they wanted, that he'd even be welcome when he got here.

He has a feeling Bruce knows he's lying. And he's really got to find a way to tell the difference between paranoia and intuition, because if Bruce knows he's lying then Jason needs to know it.

"Jaylad," Bruce says gently. And oh shit, he knows. "It's okay if you're upset."

"Why would I be upset?" Jason answers stiffly. "I was dead. It's not like you just forgot about me, you..."

He trails off, too aware that his dismissal doesn't sound remotely convincing to think of a proper explanation. And, as much as he wants to keep his cover, it might be too high a cost if he has to justify what Bruce did to do it. He doesn't want to make excuses for why they replaced him, if anything they should be making excuses to him.

"Tim isn't here to be you, Jason, he's here to be Tim," Bruce says calmly, reasonably. "Just like you weren't here to be Dick. I know the circumstances are different, but I promise, we could never forget about you."

It doesn't make any sense but damned if that doesn't sound like the truth.

Or maybe he just wants to believe it so bad he's not looking for a reason it could be untrue. But when Bruce first found Jason, and when he first found Dick, he didn't care what they could do for him. They were just kids in need of shelter. Maybe it wasn't about replacing him, maybe it was just about Tim. Maybe there's a timeline where Jason doesn't die, and Tim still comes along.

Thinking it doesn't make the hurt go away. Now he's just confused on top of everything else.

Everything seemed so clear when he made the plan. He should've followed it.

"I know that," Jason says irritably, because he should. He should know that. If nothing else, Bruce's logic tracks.

"But believing it is something different," Dick prompts in understanding. "Right?"

Asshole. Their experiences were never the same. When Jason took up the mantle of Robin it was after Dick willingly gave it up. He had everything. Which isn't to say that it wouldn't have been difficult. Jason knows it was difficult, he was on the receiving end of a lot of that resentment.

But Jason didn't willingly give this up. It was ripped away. Dick doesn't get to act like the situations are comparable.

"Lay off, would you?" Jason snaps. "I said I wasn't upset."

Dick and Bruce exchange a silent look, which is almost more annoying than if they were to actually answer. He can't read their micro-expressions half as well as he used to.

"Okay," Dick relents, albeit somewhat reluctantly if the way he throws his hands up in an imitation of surrender is any indication.

"The full story isn't for me to share," Bruce says, practiced neutrality smoothing over the tension. "But for now, do you have any questions you'd like to ask?"

This is his chance.

An open conversation, a chance to clear the air. He can hear Bruce's side of the story before either of them goes and does something they won't be able to undo. It's what he's even here for in the first place.

All the questions run through his mind in rapid fire, everything he doesn't want to know but needs to. He can ask how long they waited before replacing him, and why it was so easy to do. He can ask why there even is another Robin if the Joker's still alive, why Bruce doesn't seem to have learned anything from what happened.

He could ask why he was so much easier to replace than to avenge.

And instead what he finds himself asking is, "What's he like?"

He wishes he could say the question was calculated. It would help the mission to know what the new Robin is capable of, what his strengths and weaknesses are.

In truth, Jason just wants to know what he's like. This total stranger that's caused him so much grief. It might make it easier, if he knows they moved on so quick for something truly remarkable. He might find out that he's not exceptionably replaceable after all. Maybe it wasn't anything Jason did, maybe Tim just really is that good.

Maybe Tim sucks and anyone would've been good enough to fill the gap Jason left behind.

"In a word?" Bruce answers thoughtfully. "Tenacious."


	4. don't wanna hand you all my trouble, don't wanna give you all my demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from twenty one pilot's 'the run and go'

Jason hasn't been this relieved to find it's nightfall in some time. Who knew reuniting with an estranged family after the better part of five years spent away would be this exhausting? Actually, he probably could've anticipated that bit.

Dick and Bruce haven't said anything one way or the other to indicate whether or not they'll be going out tonight. It occurs to him that he should find out. He's got no Red Hood business to attend to tonight, which means he could take advantage of the manor being empty. Get to work on planning a way through Bruce's security measures for when he does have work to do.

He can practically hear Talia's voice in his head, accusing him of childish arrogance when he ultimately decides he's got plenty of time to work it out. Even imaginary disapproval, it seems, is enough to make him dig his heels in.

He does have time. And besides, he's had far too much to think about today, he doesn't really want to add any more to that pile.

The route he follows Bruce through the halls is just out of the way enough to be sure that not walking past the door to Jason's old room is a deliberate choice. Jason recognizes this with an irritable flicker of gratitude. He doesn't want to revisit that particular spot in the house yet. He's also just a little offended that Bruce seems to think walking past some dumb old door might be too much for him.

They stop in the hallway just outside the room Alfred set up for him.

"You didn't have a bag with you, so we got you some of Dick's extra pajamas," Bruce says. Then, as an afterthought, "They might be a little small."

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

He should probably plan on grabbing some things from his safehouse tomorrow though, now that he's staying. Not that he has an overwhelming amount of civilian clothes or things like pajamas to begin with.

Maybe it helps that he's still legally dead, but Jason didn't come to Gotham City to be a person again. All he needed was enough to get from one place to another inconspicuously, and his Red Hood gear. Which, by the way, is less comfortable but far safer to sleep in. An emergency retreat is much quicker when all he needs to grab is his helmet and guns on the way out, and it makes any potential attempt to attack him while he's asleep that much tougher.

Something tells him that would raise a couple of eyebrows in current company, however. So pajamas it is.

"Dick and I have some leads to follow up in the city tonight," Bruce continues. "But if you need anything don't hesitate to ask, alright?"

"Yeah, sure," he acquiesces, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

He got this far just fine on his own, but sure, one night sleeping in the manor will be what he finally needs help for.

Bruce looks at him with a faint hint of skepticism. No doubt they both know Jason's not going to be asking for anything, even if Bruce is wildly misinformed as to the reasons. He's not being stoic or stubborn or whatever, he just doesn't plan on needing anything. Least of all from Bruce Wayne.

"I mean it," Bruce says, and Jason does roll his eyes that time. He nods, and Bruce mirrors the gesture before saying, "Alright, then. Goodnight, kiddo."

Something in Jason's chest constricts at the nickname. He echoes, "Night."

He watches Bruce's back retreating down the hall for just a second, half curious about what leads he and Dick have to follow up in the city. Jason's been attentive enough to know they can't have any worthwhile leads about him. He's got to wonder what they think they've found. Maybe it's about Black Mask. Or a wild goose chase.

He shakes his head and slips through the doorway into the guest room.

Tomorrow he can do some subtle questioning for information on how their lead went. If it is about Black Mask, there might be something he can use. If it's about him it'll be good to know, whether or not the lead is actually any good.

There's a small stack of folded clothes sat on the foot of the bed for him.

A pair of blue flannel pajama pants and a nondescript gray t-shirt, believable Dick's old pajamas. But the sweatshirt sitting beside all that can't belong to him. It's got a faded Gotham Blades logo printed on the front, and Dick never liked hockey. Bruce, on the other hand, was a big fan in his college days.

Jason knows, in part because he managed to get Bruce to take him to a game exactly twice, and in part because he's pretty sure he's stolen that sweatshirt once before. Back when it would have been large enough to swamp him.

He changes into the pajamas and leaves the sweatshirt at the foot of the bed.

It's not even that cold tonight.

* * *

The nightmares, like his temper, were something he had at least marginally under control. Right up until his return to Gotham.

There's this recurring one, he had it every night for over a month after his little dunk in that Hadean green hot spring. He's at the bottom of the Pit. He doesn't know how he knows it's the bottom, there's nothing around to offer any sense of direction. No ground, no sloping walls, no sign of the surface. Just that vibrant green and a sinking feeling in his gut.

He's holding his breath, trying to swim up. Only he can't figure out which up even is, and the more he exerts himself the harder it is not to breath.

The emerald ichor stings his eyes and he has to squeeze them shut. It's not like navigating can get any more difficult, he didn't know where he was when he could see. He picks a direction to be his up and he swims, but he never seems to get it right.

Eventually he can't hold his breath any longer.

His lungs burn and his muscles lag. There's the illusion of the water thickening, but even in sleep he knows it's just his own body betraying him, his reaction time slowing from lack of oxygen. The natural instinct in response is to take in a breath, even when there isn't any air to be found. He fights it and fights it and loses, and feels his jaw snap open in a desperate grasp for life. All he takes in is horrible green acid.

It's the same every time. The second he breathes it in it sears. He's viscerally aware of the substance melting through layers of sinew and muscle and flesh.

When he opens his eyes he can see patches of his own bone peaking through; ribs, fingerbones, forearm. Stringy fibers of nerves and arteries web out, floated upwards by the current. Like something out of one of the particularly gruesome zombie movies he used to watch when he was far too young, but his mom was too out of it with fever to care or even notice.

This is the part where he's supposed to wake up. He hasn't had this dream for the better part of a year, but it's thoroughly ingrained in his head. He gasps for air, he burns, he wakes up.

This is the first time he's had the dream in Gotham, and he doesn't wake up.

And he's familiar with it enough that he knows he's dreaming, because he knows this is the part where he wakes up. It's not enough to still the panic rising impossibly higher in his chest as his lungs incinerate, and his flesh dissolves. Because maybe this isn't the dream, maybe out there is. Maybe the Pit reduces him to nothing and all Talia al Ghul has to show for her efforts is a brittle skeleton.

He opens his mouth to yell. In the hopes of releasing the pressure building up in his ribcage or in the hopes of calling for help, he doesn't know. He knows help isn't coming. He's never asked in the dream before, but he's always known, help isn't coming.

If he's getting out of this it'll be on his own.

He picks a direction to be his up and swims, and swims, and watches the water carry flecks of fingernail and muscle fiber away on the current, and swims some more. After what feels like hours, and for the first time since he can remember having the dream, he gets it right. He breaches the surface.

His hand grabs blindly for purchase on the shore as he heaves desperately for air. It runs ragged down the marred remnants of his throat, but his lungs inflate.

He feels the vibration of footsteps approaching a split second before the boots come into view. Jason can't will himself to look up. He's too exhausted, too in pain, too afraid. But he hears his own voice asking for help. It sounds distorted and weak, but it's his voice, his words.

The person, whoever they are, steps closer. He feels his muscles relax. Whoever they are, somehow his limbs know to associate them with safety far before his brain does.

But they don't help, nor do they speak. They just stand there, waiting.

He draws the energy to lift his cheek from the wet stone he clings to. The person shifts. Before he can realize what's happening, a heavy bootheel is connecting with his face.

His hand slips from the rock it's found hold of, and he scrabbles to regain his grip. A second kick follows the first, and he can't hold on. He's dragged back and down, down, down into the water. The second he's submerged again in green, his vision fades to black.

Jason jolts awake with a sharp, painful gasp of air.

The first isn't enough to banish the feeling of drowning from his lungs, and he heaves in another and another, too frantically to actually do him much good but he can't control it. His throat burns, his lungs feel black and heavy. A far too real sensation for something he finds no other real world evidence of.

He doesn't immediately recognize where he is, and as his eyes adjust to the dark he finds himself scanning the room for a weapon, or an enemy.

He's already halfway out of bed before he makes the connection. Wayne Manor. Alfred set him up in one of the guest rooms.

It does nothing to dull the fire in his ribs. He sits forward enough to rest his elbows on his knees and tries to just focus on getting his breathing under control. Every ragged inhale feels like getting himself deeper and deeper into a debt he can't hope to repay.

A minute passes. It might only be a second. Or five minutes, his heart is pounding too quick to measure time and nothing seems to be slowing it down.

He sits back up and stretches his arms out in front of him to confirm that his flesh is, in fact, still very much intact and not gradually peeling off, thank you very much. When sight doesn't calm him he runs his hands up and down his forearms to check by touch. And it all feels real enough, but so did disintegrating.

With an impatient huff, he turns to climb out of bed. He doesn't know where he's going, exactly, but he can't sit here anymore. His elbow bumps a nightstand he's not expecting to be there, harsh enough to knock some old picture frame to the ground. Jason flinches at the sound the glass makes when it cracks, and finds himself looking over both shoulders just to ensure there's no one there to witness it.

Running his hands down his face, he shuts his eyes tight and exhales.

The boots flash behind his eyelids.

He knows them, and he knows them well. That's the only reason he can fathom that seeing them felt safe. But he can't place them.

The unease takes root in his gut all over again. He doesn't quite manage to suppress the shudder as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He remembers the picture frame with just enough time to adjust his foot placement before standing up, pacing restlessly towards the wall and then back.

It's been a long, long time since he's had a reaction to the dream this strong.

But the dream has never changed before. Even when it terrified him there was a degree of comfort in knowing that, in knowing exactly what would happen every time. Now he knows there's a surface. He knows the only thing that lies above the surface is more danger. There really is no escape after all.

His breath hitches and he paces to the wall and back once more.

The view through the window shows that it's still night, at least. With any luck Dick and Bruce will still be out, and Alfred will still be in the Batcave. The last thing he needs is for someone to have heard him.

The question as to what they would do if they had dances across the back of his mind. That patented balance between firm and soft that had colored Bruce's tone in the hall when he told Jason not to hesitate if he needed anything. He might have meant it. He might help, if Jason asked. He was always good at this, when Jason would have bad dreams as a kid.

This manor must be getting to his head. Carbon monoxide leaks aren't uncommon in old buildings like this one, right?

He's not calling Bruce, he's not even considering calling Bruce. He's been back here a day, that's it. And just because Bruce was kind when Jason was little doesn't mean he's kind now. It certainly doesn't mean he's not still the bastard responsible for all of this to begin with.

With an aggravated huff and the anxiety still rising in his chest, Jason resumes his pacing. When he notices his hands are shaking he balls them into fists and goes to jam them in his pockets before realizing he doesn't have any.

He knows what he's supposed to do. What Ra's, and Talia, and every other assassin he's trained with would tell him to do. His fear makes him weak, and in a battle weakness means death. Again, in his case. He needs to confront it at the source, or as close to the source as possible, and deal with it before it can fester and get worse.

But he doesn't want to. Maybe he can wait this one out, convince himself it's not that bad, and he won't have to confront it.

His breathing isn't evening out and he can't unclench his fists without the shaking coming back. He can't close his eyes without seeing green. He can't wait this one out and, more importantly, he can't fucking breath.

God dammit. He doesn't want to do this.

After another stubborn minute of pacing, Jason caves and scans the room for what feels like the hundredth time already. There's not a lot of options. He could risk slipping out and checking somewhere else in the manor, but that means running the possibility of getting caught, and it's not something he wants to deal with explaining.

He remains less than optimistic as he approaches the bed once more. He hovers at the foot of it indecisively for a moment, and then grabs Bruce's sweatshirt from where it somehow still stubbornly sits, even despite all Jason's thrashing in his sleep. He tells himself it's just to help with the shivering, nothing more, and tugs it on over his head.

The bedframe is barely high enough off the ground for him to fit, but he just manages to crawl underneath. He reminds himself that the tight fit makes it all the more suitable for his purposes as he shimmies further beneath it, until he's properly hidden below.

It's too familiar, trapped in the dark. Nothing to look up at but a slat of wood. No room to move, only stale air to breath. That specific familiarity is the whole point, but the panic only builds. He supposes he can't technically confront it if it just goes away. 

Jason screws his eyes shut against the dark and lets the green and the past play across his mind. A noise that sounds embarrassingly like a whimper escapes his lips, and he shakes his head. Pushes the fear down like they tried so hard to teach him, and makes another attempt at forcing his breathing to even itself out.

* * *

The next time Jason wakes up it's not as immediately obvious what woke him. And he does smack his head against the bedframe above when he goes to sit up, but his chest doesn't feel like it's about to cave in on itself this time around so he'll call it an improvement.

He doesn't remember ever actually calming down enough to fall asleep last night. What's more likely is that the exhaustion from all his pathetic freaking out caught up with him, and he just couldn't hold out anymore. It's embarrassing. Even with no one around to pass judgment it's embarrassing. He's supposed to be tougher than this.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Jason maneuvers his way, somewhat awkwardly, back out from beneath the bed.

A beam of sunlight peaks through the partial opening in the blackout curtains on the window. It glints off the loose shards of picture frame that made their way to the floorboards last night. He hopes Alfred's not too mad about that.

He sets the frame and the photo itself on the nightstand, along with some of the larger shards of glass. Thankfully, it's not shattered. There's just a mean looking crack running down the middle, and a few pieces have been knocked loose. Which makes for far easier clean up, and less of a likelihood of him stepping on broken glass. He'll probably still try to find a broom and sweep it up later, just in case.

For now, he's got bigger priorities. Like a cup of coffee, that's number one.

He makes it halfway to the door before he remembers to take the sweatshirt off. He doesn't need Bruce thinking Jason actually did need his help after all.

He leaves the sweatshirt in a heap at the foot of the bed, and starts down the hall towards the stairwell.

Maybe he should've glanced at the clock before stepping out, too. He knew it was day, but he expected it to be earlier. He can hear voices in the kitchen when he gets there, and if Dick and Bruce were working their night jobs last night, they won't have woken up until late. He wasn't expecting to have to see them yet.

From down the hall, it sounds like they're disagreeing about something. Jason can't quite help but eavesdrop.

"Just give him a few days," Dick's saying, bordering on frustrated but not actually there, "to adjust. Tim's already coming home today, you really wanna add this on top of that?"

The first half of Bruce's statement is too softly spoken to catch. Eavesdropping on Bruce always was more of a challenge. Not because he's more alert than most people, although that doesn't help. He's just quieter than you expect. It's followed with, "But if he is in danger, that just gets worse the longer he doesn't know."

"What makes you think he doesn't know?" Dick challenges. "He hasn't exactly been forthcoming with us."

"Fair point."

"And we don't know for sure yet if that's even what this is," Dick continues, as if Bruce's concession were another argument. "It could still be a coincidence."

He can practically hear the way Bruce's eyebrow raises. "Does that seem likely to you?"

"Stranger things, right?"

There's a quick pause. Maybe Bruce answers and he just doesn't catch it. But Dick sighs audibly, presses on, "All I'm saying is, give it a little time. He's safe here, at least."

"Yeah, but for how long?" Bruce answers cynically.

And Jason contemplates hanging back longer. Whatever it is they can't seem to agree on, it probably has something to do with the lead they were following up on last night. If they keep debating about it he might overhear a detail he can actually learn something from, instead of all these vague hypotheticals.

At the very least, it doesn't sound like they suspect him of anything yet.

No, they just want to protect him from something. God, that's almost worse.

But every second he waits is a second he risks getting caught spying, and he'd like to deflect suspicion a little while longer. He makes the executive decision to head into the kitchen then, yawning about halfway down the hall so they can hear him coming and change the subject.

"That coffee I smell?" he says by way of greeting.

"Morning, little wing," Dick says, sending a pointed look in Bruce's direction before flashing Jason a bright grin. He's already getting up to retrieve a mug from the cupboard as he asks, "Sleep okay?"

"Fine," Jason answers, a smidge too defensively.

Dick looks back to Bruce. It's just for a second, while he's pouring coffee, but Jason's certain he could clock the tension from a mile away even if he hadn't been listening in just now. Bruce breaths out a small sigh that seems almost like a surrender of some sort, and Dick nods curtly before turning to pass Jason a mug.

Jason accepts with a murmured gratitude.

An almost normal moment passes, as he leans against the counter by the sink to sip at his coffee. It's still early enough, and their respective nights were late enough that there's no reason for the silence to be awkward.

It's just the three of them existing in the same room together, simple and obscenely peaceful. Jason shifts his weight uncomfortably. Peace is foreign and rarely genuine.

When they're all at least mostly finished with their coffee, and Dick and Bruce have done some light squabbling about breakfast cereal, Bruce rises and steps away from the counter. Jason finds himself glancing down towards Bruce's shoes before he even realizes what he's checking for.

Not that it means anything, it was just a dream, but Bruce isn't wearing the boots.

"Alfred and I are going to pick Tim up from the airport," Bruce says. He doesn't even look over at Dick, but even Jason can tell the message is intended for him when Bruce adds, matter of fact, "Dick'll be here, so it shouldn't be too quiet."

"Sure," Jason says, nodding with a forced degree of disinterest.

He wasn't looking forward to meeting the kid before, and he's looking forward to it even less after his talk with Dick and Bruce yesterday. At least he can get more intel out of Dick before they get back, figure out the best way to play things around Tim. He's come too far to let some two-bit Robin with an inquisitive streak get in the way now.

"I'll fill him in as best as I can on the way over," Bruce says.

The implication being that it's to keep the questioning to a minimum. What Bruce doesn't say, but what Jason knows he's thinking, is that filling Tim in will be difficult when Jason hasn't really given them much information to fill him in on.

"Looking forward," Jason says, raising two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute as Bruce vanishes out the kitchen door.

And maybe that part is a lie, but Jason's willing to acknowledge that there are benefits to the newest little bird returning to the nest.

For one thing, if Tim is anything at all like either of his predecessors, he probably already has the solution to Jason's little 'sneaking out of the manor without Bruce catching on' puzzle. Which would save a lot of legwork and mental effort on Jason's part. All that he has to do is figure out a way to get the kid to volunteer the information without knowing that's what he's doing.

Jason's already working on a plan to do just that.


End file.
